‘I’m not surprised,’ said Adletsky. He seldom was genuinely surprised. He had never met Jay Wustrin. But in running a check on Amy, as such a man was bound to do, he had learned all he needed to know about her onetime husband. Jay was not a distinguished lawyer – he had no political clout, a serious disability in this city. He made intricate business passes that were foolish. His files were over-documented. It was a game with him to keep perfect records, but there wasn’t all that much to record. The clients who kept him in business were old Northside neighbors, pals of his father. He drew their wills, and when they sold their houses he attended to the closings. I turned to him myself when I came back from Burma and Guatemala. If you had clear objectives and checked Jay’s tendency to elaborate, to duplicate, and to triplicate, he could do your paperwork as well as another lawyer.

‘What was the case?’ said Adletsky.

‘A former husband of hers,’ said Amy.

‘A property matter?’

‘Must have been. You do remember’ – she changed the subject – ‘that I have a special chore this afternoon at the cemetery. Unless it can be called off because of the snowstorm.’

‘You can’t count on that. There is no real blizzard. It’s a wet snow that won’t stick. According to the latest on TV, this weather system is bound for Michigan and Indiana.’

‘It’s going to be blue sky and sunshine all afternoon,’ said Dame Siggy. ‘Wear boots; you’ll need them out there.’

‘I’m not looking forward to it one bit.’

‘You’ve told me what this was about, and Quigley got you the permit to exhume the body.’ Quigley was one of Adletsky’s staff of lawyers. ‘But it’s still not clear why the man has to be moved.’

It occurred to Amy that Adletsky wanted Dame Siggy to hear the particulars. And why not? The old woman – unnaturally old – lowered her face, listening, taking it all in.

‘Your husband’s coffin has to be dug up?’

‘My parents bought graves in Waldheim many years ago, and after my mother died, my dad suddenly said he had no use for the space – his space. He started to say, “What do I need this plot for? I’m going to sell it.”’

‘How old was your father?’

‘He’s now eighty-one.’

‘And was he all there?’

‘I can’t say he was … or is.’

‘Gaga? But not Alzheimer’s …?’

‘It didn’t have to be Alzheimer’s. He got the fixed idea of selling his grave, he came back to it day after day, and for some reason he insisted that Jay should buy it. That’s my late husband, Mrs Adletsky.’

‘I’ve gathered that.’

‘Jay enjoyed that sort of joke. He used to tease my dad and say, “Don’t you want to be buried next to your wife – the two of you forever and ever?” And my father would answer, “No, I’d rather have the money. It’s foolish. For me it doesn’t make sense to keep it. What do I need it for! You buy it from me.” Jay said, “Won’t you be jealous if I’m beside her?” And he’d tell him, “It’s not in my character to be jealous. I haven’t got a jealous nature.”’